It was often my habit on a work day to go fishing at daybreak off the waters of Lotus City. I would start at 5 am and finish before 8 am, change on the boat and go to work. I fished alone at that time of day and there was nothing more pleasant than to troll along side the Discovery Islands at Strongtide Bay on ebb-tide. with the wire lines humming and the trolling bells rhythmically ringing with the gentle tug and swell. Because it was early morning, nature usually called sometime shortly after the setup, and in the cabin on the throne I would rest a bit, watching and listening to the bells through the open cabin door, in repose, with an air of contemplation and expectation.
      The joy I felt on the briny deep in pursuit of the salmon was enhanced by the embrace of Mother Nature who was mine alone at that time of the morning. The world was still asleep! My lines were fishing deep, the depth maintained by planers, that when tripped by a strike prompted the rod's bells to ring urgently. The planers rose to the surface quickly with the fish on, resulting in line slack. The fisherman needed to react with alacrity to get to the rod and tighten the slack so the fish wouldn't throw the hook. In the midst of my meditation on the throne, suddenly the bell on the rod on the starboard side rang stridently. With great speed I hopped off the throne, pants dangling at the ankles; I bounded to retrieve the rod from the rod-holder and began to reel in the line slack to play the fish. I suddenly heard great cheering and looked up to see high fives from a quartet of tourists on the guide boat fishing long side me, starboard. My boat had low freeboard so I wasn't sure if they were cheering my catch or crotch. Thank goodness it was a time before cellphones with cameras or youtube.
         You can't hold your rod and wind up your knuckleduster reel and pull up your pants all at the same time unless you have three hands. Something had to be let go and it wasn't the fish.

e  Our family owned what was one of the more ugly boats on the wet coast. It was a wood planked, 26 and one half foot semi-planing  displacement hull with a smoky diesel engine. It traveled by a propulsion with a single screw and reached a maximum of 7 and a half knots. I bought it for 2 and one half thousand dollars in 1968 and we had it for over 20 years. It was the kind of boat you could hammer a nail in anywhere, to hang any thing you wished to reach, mainly fishing gear. The pianist made curtains and nice mattress covers for the bunk beds and made it homey as best she could, but much of it remained "dressed up ugly". We were very fond of our boat as a family of five and used it constantly so it never let us down. A boat in constant use remains a faithful companion. " If you don't use, it you lose it."
    Every time I went down to the Oak Bay Marina where it lived, to paint it I went fishing instead.  When it needed caulking, I was a fast caulker so he cabin continued to leak, but we had more fishing time. Often I would just go and sit with it and make boat coffee and meditate. In those early days the marina was a particularly heterogenous mixture of the sublime and UBS (ugly but satisfactory) so no one worried over a pecking order.
      We went for a  summer cruise in the Salish sea for a week and the weather became squally. We were caught at sea in the squall and our clothing became wet partly due to our cabin leak. The pianist jury-rigged a clothesline and we hung our clothes out to dry when the sun came out and put into Bedwell, the nearest harbour. Bedwell is aptly named as it is a secluded refuge for over nighters. As we pulled into the harbour we could see nothing but a flotilla of large, white sleek, beautiful boats, with a clutch of glistening people in whites, deck shoes, and big hair, cooking steaks on their Hibachis at wharfside. My 14 year old son said, " Shit, we should get out of here." I;m sure he spoke for all of us but by then we were already committed.
        As I eased our smoking, ugly stinkpot into the moorage the disdain from the boaters seemed palpable. Certainly the pianist's clothesline added to the picture, flags of Salish hillbillies. I did think however we may have been one of the few that owned our own boat and knew how to manage tight corners with a single screw.

In the olden days of the late forties there were no Zambonis. The tribe of which I was a member, the rink rats, were proud to be noticed as we skated up and down the ice with our ice scrapers, caroming against one another, pushing our snow load to the big door at the end of the Kindersley arena. We cleared the ice of snow between the hockey periods and after the game. The biggest rat shoveled it out the door. We were allowed to watch all the hockey games free. The Kindersley Klippers were a great intmediate B team. We were all proud to be identified with them.
      I lived on third avenue east, half a short block from the rink, and like all small town rinks it was available for most of the time. Rink rats did a lot of other go-fer jobs as well. The entire rink management was of a volunteer nature. It seems now that we practically lived in the rink in the winter. Kindersley had PeeWee, Bantam,Midget, and Juvenile teams so the rink was busy. There was frequently shinny when the rink was  occupied, usually on the icy street on 3rdAve east near the rink. I don't remember any Junior teams of ours at that time. If we had anyone of that age that was good they probably went to Moose Jaw.
        Hockey was as natural for us as skiing for an Austrian or swimming for an Aussie. There was little money in those days, even for the players that made it big. It was love of the game . Player like the Bently's and Geordie Howe, or the Hucul's would have made more money staying on the farm. What was it that drove us? The pure love of the game and the sure knowledge that it was our game and still is in small town Canada. It had everything to do with participation and dreams. We played it in our sleep.

What if everybody in the world, at the same day, at the same minute, opened their window, looked at the sky, took a big breath, and yelled out their lungs saying,  " Thank you very much, thank you a lot. "  The view would probably change, suffused suddenly with light and color and clarity.
    On the other hand, what if everybody in the world, at the same day, at the same minute, opened their window, looked at the sky, took a big breath and yelled out their lungs saying, " I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore ."  The view would darken and sounds of sorrow, tears, and grief would arise.
      What if,  is only wistful thinking. It may be that we took everything for granted.  In a distant time and a distant place we were given a grant that allowed us to live in a place of light and color and clarity. We may have spoiled it by forgetting to say, thank you very much, thank you a lot, for the grant we were given, and fell into something like I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.
I think we are watching too much television these days. The movie " Network "  described television as  "indifferent to suffering,  insensitive to joy.  All of life is reduced to the rubble of banality."  Maybe that's a little strong, but the task of mankind is to recover the grant,  or at least what is left for the wistful among us. Not, as it were, taking the grant for granted.

Second year University French  was mandatory in the Pre-med Science programme at the University of Manitoba. I had only one year of high school French in Saskatchewan. It soon became abundantly apparent that I was out of my depth and destined for disaster. Most of the class were from St. Boniface, taking the class to refine their own working language and to belong to the French Club that met regularly.
       I was sitting with a senior student in the cafeteria eating my bag lunch  and probably had a doleful look  since my cause seemed hopeless at that stage and I saw no way out. He listened to my tale of woe, my putative career gradually eroding away in my mind, failure looming large.  "Hey listen, " he said, " If you get out the old final exams in French for the last ten years you'll see that there is always 50 % of the mark for an essay in French. They give you a choice of topics and if you choose something like a " trip to the farm" it'll probably apply to a topic choice. I received a glimmer of hope from my rescuer, but I'm sure I looked dubious.
         However , what that sage said was true!  The topic choices in the old exam papers I reviewed included, An Exciting Experience,  ( A Trip to the Farm ) , What You did Last Summer ,  (A Trip to the Farm ), An Enjoyable Journey, ( A Trip to the Farm ). This was the straw I was willing to grasp. Sure enough, the angel I met at lunch over my Baloney sandwich was right. Before the examination I carefully crafted a French essay, letter perfect, accent perfect, on A Trip to the Farm and memorized it.
         I scraped through French with little to spare. I learned a lot that year. If you have a lot of cunning you can get by if you have a will and a way, but it's not a substitute for smart.  The teacher who marked my paper must have wondered how a guy that dumb in the other 50% wrote an essay that was that perfect,  and didn't cheat.

" Baa- Ram- Ewe, Baa-Ram-Ewe, to your breed and fleece be true, Baa-Ram-Ewe !"  In the movie this was the password and creed Babe learned to communicate and gain the trust of the sheep with, and he never let them down in the end, nor did they him. Remember, these are sheep  that follow the creed and the leader of the flock. Babe, became an individual but it was hard for him to be a pig and learn to be an individual,
.His parents and extended family were all eaten so he had no parenting that prepared him for pig-hood, but when a Border Collie with the right stuff began to mother him, he slowly began an apotheosis: pigness with a mantle of dogness! He developed the right stuff as well because of the kindly "parentis loci" of the Collie.
        Babe was never pigheaded but was always open to suggestions. He suffered derision through the pilgrimage of his life because he was different in the animal farm, but despite that parlous state he found himself in, he remained loyal, saw things with optimism, and ultimately prevailed. The farmer, gradually seeing the heart of his pig, his courage and his brains and took the same risk that Babe did and and entered him into sheep dog trials as "Pig" since the rules never contemplated that anyone would enter a contestant that was not a dog.
         To be an individual in this world and to be true to oneself takes courage, not running  like sheep with
the crowd. No matter how consoling it might be to run with the fleece, if one has a muse there is a need to follow it. To belong may not be one's karma. The need for a creed by which to live will limit one's horizon. Yes, it's safer to belong. In the end, Babe and the farmer overcame. This of course was a fairy story and real life will not often come with a win. That's the risk. Taking a fall is reality.
            Better alone and followed our star, than compromised for the second best. In the end we have only to answer to ourselves and our maker .

A he said ," I yam what I yam."  I'm not sure he knew what he was, as if any of us do.  He was often beset by Bluto,  a big hairy bully, and he had the job of protecting Olive Oyl from him, but Popeye  may have never realized that his own internal dark side was Bluto and his Anima was Olive.
     " I Yam what I Yam " is pretty complicated stuff . Our nameless God says just call me  "I AM " and Descartes said, " I think. Therefore I am." but Popeye the sailor man is an equal challenge for us. Moreover he has to rely from strength outside of his skin because he cannot battle his big hairy bully  or protect his anima without a can or two of spinach.  And so do we as we find out, usually painfully, that we need a tonic of spinach from time to time when our Bluto appears or Olive is threatened, usually both.
        I may say blithely, " I am what I am. "  but wholeness is an elusive state and for me it includes Bluto and Olive Oyl and the great I AM, who is my giver of spinach.

In my library there are some books that sit, neglected for no good reason other than a boring title, a should read example, or just down the list. A good example is From Sea Unto Sea, The Road to Nationhood 1890-1910  written by WG Hardy. It was published by Doubleday in 1959 and republished in 1960 and 1970 clearly for schools. On the flyleaf is a stamped library record that says Arbutus Junior Secondary School. It was clearly brought home by one of the three offspring of our's in the 70's and has sat, wasting away. I say wasting away because it has never been cracked open, characteristic of our junior secondaries at that time as well of course of me, so the glue has dried out over the years and it is falling apart as I read it now.
       It is one of the most exciting and readable books I have ever read as a history of that period of time and clearly has been written by a historian who relishes literacy, surprisingly racy opinion, and scholarly accuracy. If you love your country and want to taste its triumphs and its warts it will fill your appetite. Typically Canadian, it is evenhanded and has nothing Jingoistic about it.
        The period it addresses is, of course, the amalgamation of the federation as we know it except Newfoundland. Other than that exception, it is the Canadian experience par excellence. I was so enthused after reading it that we ordered three new copies from Amazon for the fifty year old offspring, whichever of the three  had never read it before. We need to look at the long view of our country to counteract the sometime dismal space we are constantly told we occupy today. If you appreciate Hardy's manuscript and know you belong, you can sing O Canada and really mean it.

In the four years 1934 to 1938; it was the tail-end of the great depression that had begun to wane. I was born in 1934 and during those years in the summer my mother and I lived in a tent on the prairies during the summers. She told me that it was the happiest period of her life. She said, " I got up in the morning, swept out the floor of our tent and we picked wild strawberries with the farmers cream from next door. Then you and I did all the nursery rhymes until you could do them by heart. " I was two years old in 1936 and my mother and I  were following my father in those summers. As the depression abated, he finally got work again with the railroad as a telegraph operator, substituting in two week stints for  the station agents here and there though out the prairie railroad depots.
        My mother and I were like camp followers, but she thrived on the change and the bonding with her first born and the gypsy life style. The summers were generally glorious, particularly in the northern part of Saskatchewan in the park lands. In the winter in those years, my father had much less work available to him and we lived with my grandfather and nanny in Little Britain, their roomy house on the Red River where my mother grew up. 
          The four years I had alone with my mother,  in this fashion in the summer, linked by indissoluble bonds  not connected with things;  house, bed ,bicycle.TV, internet, may have left an imprint that differs from today. The stability that is supposed to be supplied according to the received wisdom  that a home must be provided with all the accoutrements in place before family planning occurs, possibly today makes sense. However, a little love, a lot of attention and bonding face to face with your mother, union of mind and body over nursery rhymes, makes up for any irregular camp following, any suspected hardship that wasn't,  and all the diverting stuff of today.                                                                             

The skill with which a pedestrian we passed in Prince George could propel a bolus of snot through the air and onto the sidewalk without a dangling sticky element clinging to the finger or face filled Joan with awe, the first and possibly the only time she had never seen such an act. The mechanics;  blocking one nostril completely with the index finger, the thumb and rest of the fingers out of the way of the projectile  in an almost graceful fashion, the shotgun violence produced by harmony of the gun-barrel nasopharynx and the explosive chest wall and diaphagm gave rise to a new form of artistry.
    We were passing through Prince George in 1958 for the first time on our way west to Vanderhoof, naive and untested in the north, our Keenex at the ready. but the consummate skill of the pedestrian's naked finger nose romance has always remained as her lasting vivid and sole recall of Prince George. The skillful management of naked nose blowing without contamination of nose and hand, is not, if you will pardon the expression, to be sneezed at.
       I don't say this skill is probably confined to Prince George but it was impressive. There were a lot of lesser towns in the area but at that time they may have only perfected low level projectile spitting without getting remnants on the chin.There is a lot to be admired about in the North